Chapter Eighteen
Lucy
Lucy woke up late on Saturday, momentarily confused. She and Serena had plotted and planned late into Friday night, painting poster board, locating a few large empty crates and filling them with straw, and skulking around Town Hall at midnight to scope out the best place for a sit-in. She’d finally felt like herself again, up to something in the name of her favorite cause. She’d been so hemmed in the last few days, it was nice to plan a little mayhem.
Mom had been waiting up when she slipped in around twelve-thirty. The eyebrow arch conveyed a pretty strong message: You’re late. Again.
Lucy had smiled and said, “Sorry. Serena and I got carried away with some work for the chickens.”
Mom had looked at the mud-caked rubber boots in Lucy’s hand and relented with a sigh. “Remember curfew is midnight. I don’t like sitting up worrying about you.”
“Okay.”
She’d gone to her room meekly, knowing that her mother would have much more reason to be angry next Thursday night. Better to be contrite now, when she’d likely come home with a ticket in a few days. All for a worthy cause, but a ticket just the same.
Plus, what kind of brat daughter kept her recently sick mother waiting up for her?
Guilt stirred in Lucy’s gut, even as she lay in bed with the summer sun streaming in her window. She should’ve thought of that. Should’ve come home by, or before, curfew to check on everyone. But after all that mess with Dylan, she hadn’t wanted to slip back into her role as “responsible young adult.” Now, though, she had to.
Lucy struggled to sit up and stretched. The wedding dress was folded on her desk, ready to be worked on. Sighing, she went to shower and grab a bite of toast.
She had a good-size worktable taking up almost the whole wall under the window. Between the sun and the strong swivel lamp mounted on the corner, this was the best place to see when doing delicate work. The house was quiet—Mom always took Otis to the store on Saturday mornings—and for an hour, it was peaceful to sew in a sunny corner, with only the swishing of tree branches outside for a soundtrack. But being alone, in a quiet house, gave her too much time to think.
Never a good idea, that…because thinking led to thinking about boys which led to thinking about Dylan which she really shouldn’t do.
And why not?
Lucy growled inwardly at that tiny voice in her head. She didn’t have much of an answer, except for the work and the sound of Otis’s voice when he was out with Dylan. He hadn’t sounded that full of joy or excitement in months. How might it hurt her brother if she pursued something with Dylan, and would that outweigh the maybe-ness of a good thing?
What about when camp was over? It was only two weeks, and they were halfway through. What would—could—Otis say then? Would Dylan still be in his life, or would she be in the clear to test the waters without betrayed and disapproving glances from Otis?
By then, she’d be over the hump with a lot of her projects, and she’d planned to take on less work during the back half of the summer, anyway, to have a little fun before school started. That had always been the plan—even before Dylan dropped into her life.
And if she was going to follow that train of thought to its full conclusion…why was she keeping her distance now?
Yeah, thinking never went the good and proper direction where Lucy was concerned, and she knew it. But watching Dylan let go of some of his armor that day in the rain, just for a minute, had been the most amazing thing. She knew they’d rub against each other’s nerves like sandpaper sometimes, but maybe that’s what they both needed.
Plus, those abs…and those arms? Seeing him yesterday, all flustered and damp from the shower? Yeah, she would never be able to erase that from her mind, which only made her want to see him more, to decide if a spark really was there, or if her reaction to him was some weird hormonal thing from being thrown together when things weren’t going well. The kiss told her something was there, but she couldn’t be sure without seeing Dylan again.
She glanced at the wedding dress. Another hour. She’d work on it for another hour, then text him. She probably shouldn’t—but she had to know. Once and for all. If it wasn’t going to work, she could put Dylan out of her mind for good.
Motivated, she hunched over the dress, her needle flying. With the end goal in mind, her rose vine design was on point, and she finished an entire foot along the hem in fifty-five minutes—a record. Distracting boys must be the answer to getting shit done.
Feeling like she was good to take a short break, Lucy picked up her phone, chewing her lip. Dylan had been kind of clear about not seeing her again. What could she say or do to convince him to meet her somewhere? What would interest him enough to say yes?
Wait…that’s it…
L: Thanks again for hanging out with Otis. Question…if I wanted to learn to catch a baseball for him, who could I talk to? I want it to be a surprise.
Okay, there. Hopefully he wouldn’t send her to the team’s catcher, or a coach.
Little dots popped up under her message. He was texting back. She folded her hands, prayer like. Please say yes. Please say yes.
D: You really want to learn? I didn’t think baseball was your thing.
Of course it wasn’t her thing, but that was the point, right? It’s for Otis.
And for her, but she’d leave it at this for now.
It took him a while to reply. Okay. Meet me at the little league fields in an hour.
Lucy’s pulse took a flying leap. He was going to meet her. If there were fireworks during something as simple as catching lessons, she’d know. If there weren’t, she could move on.
She finished off another inch on the dress, then changed into the lone pair of running shorts she owned, along with a gray T-shirt with a chicken saying “Moo!” on the front. She really did have too many T-shirts with chickens on them. This was probably better than the mash up T of Winnie the Pooh dressed as Chewbacca, though. She wasn’t sure where the line was when it came to straight-laced Dylan. He might laugh. He might not.
She frowned, staring into her closet. So what if he laughed? If he didn’t like Chewbacca-the-Pooh, he probably wasn’t worth chasing. Fine, she’d wear her knee socks with the robots, tacos, and rainbows on them, too.
Shirt changed, she ran downstairs to grab a granola bar on her way out. Mom and Otis always went to lunch after the shop closed, a standing date for them to have some one-on-one time. Lucy had a few hours left to meet Dylan and be back home before they wondered where she’d gone.
The day was breezy and bright. Lucy’s T-shirt stuck to her back before she made it to the car and a full AC blast didn’t dispel much of the heat. Summers in Texas weren’t for the dainty, that was for sure.
She drove through town, avoiding Main, where Mom’s shop was. No sense in raising any drama if she could help it, right? She’d driven to the little league fields a billion times with Otis, and there were plenty of ways to get there that didn’t involve cruising right by the store’s front door…or getting lost. Besides, a little covert driving would take her mind off seeing Dylan. Butterflies were already holding a square dance in her stomach, and she wasn’t sure she could handle much more.
When she pulled into the small lot, only one other car was there: a charcoal Porsche crossover. The tailgate was up, and Dylan was leaning into the back, his face hidden from hers.
“Okay,” she breathed. “You can do this.”
Being nervous was so stupid. She was never nervous before meeting up with a guy. Excited maybe, but not palms-slick, knees-trembling, stomach-fluttering nervous.
But she was.
She made her way through the gate and onto the field. A catcher’s mitt, a chest guard, and a helmet with a mask were lying on the ground by the metal thing that kept pitches from hitting the spectators.
Just how seriously was he taking this? “Is all this stuff for me?”
The tailgate slammed closed. “Yeah, just a sec.”
Dylan, carrying a basket of baseballs with a glove resting on top, came striding in from the parking lot. He was dressed in his usual: Tight, dry-fit T-shirt and athletic shorts. When had she started thinking that was sexy? Maybe it was the way he moved in those clothes—confident and sure. Like nothing could touch him. Like he owned the ground he walked on, but was willing to share it with her.
Heat crept up her neck that nothing to do with the brutal sunshine.
He carried the basket to the pitcher’s mound, then turned to face her. “Overkill?”
She looked down at the catcher’s equipment, hoping he hadn’t caught her gawking. “Maybe a little. I was thinking more about tossing a ball back and forth.”
Dylan cocked his head. “Not for Otis. There are nets and things that will let him pitch on his own, but if you really want to catch for him, you’ll want to do it the right way.”
Lucy held in a sigh. He was in full instructor mode. She’d have to work around that if she wanted to crack his resolve. And she really wanted to try. “Maybe show me how to hold a baseball the right way, and we can work up from there?”
His eyes narrowed. “Otis could teach you that.”
“I want you to teach me.”
That hung in the air between them. Dylan looked away, but his shoulders were tense. Good, someone knew how she felt, too. “Lucy…”
She wasn’t going to hear any excuses. Serena was right— She needed to cut the crap. She marched over to the bucket of baseballs and pulled one out. She walked over to Dylan, stopping a foot away, and held up the ball. “Show me.”
His head snapped up. The heat in his gaze burned straight through her, and she had to bite back a smile of triumph. She had his attention now. And someone liked girls who took control.
A line knit between his eyebrows, and his shoulders were up around his ears, but he didn’t tear his eyes away from hers. “Okay, I’ll teach you, if that’s what you want.”
His voice was soft, not annoyed, as he moved around to stand behind her. His breath was warm on her neck and goose bumps raced down both her arms. His hands covered hers, helping her turn the ball, so it was in the right spot against her palm, before moving her fingers into the correct position.
Lucy hardly breathed.
“This is how you hold the ball—always hold it across the seams.” He gripped her hand in his larger one, and mimed throwing the ball, not like a pitch, but like one of the other players would. “This is how outfielders throw, but it’s all you need to send the ball back to Otis.”
He mimed the throw again, moving her arm overhead. “You’ll release it from the top. Think you’ve got it?”
Lucy wanted to say no, just so he’d keep holding her arm, but she nodded. “Let me try.”
He stepped back, and she took a deep breath. Her hands were shaking. You can do this. Maybe. She regripped the ball like he’d shown her, wound up, and threw.
The ball went about ten feet, bounced off the ground, and rolled.
Dylan couldn’t stifle his chuckle. “That was…uh, that was good for a first try.”
Lucy put her hands on her hips. “It was terrible. Let me try again.”
He dug three balls out of the basket and handed her one. She threw the first one farther, but way to the left. Grumbling, she held out her hand for another ball. This time, she managed to throw it mostly straight.
“You know?” Dylan still sounded amused. “This might be good for Otis. He’ll have to practice fielding balls that come off the bat on a hop anyway.”
“Is that a nice way of making lemonade out of my lemon of an arm?” Lucy asked.
Dylan winked at her and trotted into the field after the balls. Lucy watched as he bent to pick them up. She had to admit, the view was pretty spectacular.
She didn’t quit ogling him in time, and Dylan straightened up to find her staring at him, twirling a piece of hair around her finger. He strolled over, grinning. “What?”
She smiled back. “How do I catch a pitch?”
“You’ll have to put on the mask and guards, first.”
Lucy went for the gear and put it on. “Now what?”
“You squat.”
His voice was daring her to do it. Fine. She dropped into a crouch and punched the mitt a few times. “Like this?”
“Uh, yeah.”
His voice had cracked—now she was getting somewhere. She waggled a bit, crouching deeper, and grinned when he watched her, slack jawed. “Show me what you’ve got.”
A fresh smirk. “I throw pretty hard.”
What, did he think she was made of glass? “Prove it.”
Mumbling something she couldn’t hear, Dylan paced around the mound a minute, then settled down to wind up. The pitch that came at her moved much faster than she expected. She caught it, barely, then pulled her hand out of the mitt and shook it. “Ow. You win.”
“Hey, you caught it. That’s something.” He was nodding in approval. “That’s good for the first time.”
“You’re a good coach. I see why Otis likes you so much.” She stood, stretching the kinks out of her back. “Speaking of which, I need to be honest. I wasn’t here just to learn to throw a ball. Truth is, I wanted to see you. I couldn’t think of a way to convince you unless Otis was involved somehow.”
Dylan took a few steps off the pitcher’s mound, inching closer. “I guess that’s fair.”
She took a more obvious step toward him and pulled off the helmet and chest plate. “I appreciate you worrying about Otis. I do. But…he’s old enough to understand, and I want to get to know you.”
“We’re totally different.” Dylan’s voice grew rough. “Opposites—”
“Opposites sometime attract.” Lucy took another big step, closing the distance to about ten feet. “That’s part of the fun. I’m not saying I want a proposal or anything. Just coffee.”
“We already had coffee.” To her surprise, he came three steps closer. His fists clenched, unclenched. “Maybe…”
She waited, watching an obvious war play out via the expression on his face. He wanted to try this thing out as much as she did, but his so-called “better nature” was holding him back. Feeling bold, she closed the distance, standing right in front of him. “Maybe, what?”
He took in a sharp breath, eyes fixed on hers. Dylan’s eyes weren’t as blue as she’d originally thought, but a stormy blue-gray. Intense and distant, kind of like how he could be sometimes. She hoped she could fix the “distant” part.
Finally, he reached for her hand. “How about lunch?”
Smiling, she gave his fingers a little squeeze. “Thought you’d never ask.”